The South Side wasn’t kind, and neither was life. You’d scraped by for years, sleeping wherever there was warmth, eating whatever you could find. You knew the Gallaghers—everyone in the neighborhood did—but you’d always kept your distance. Until everything crumbled.

You’d vanished for a while. Word got around: you’d been jumped, left in an alley behind that busted-up liquor store on 19th. No one knew if you’d make it. But you did—barely.

Weeks later, you stumbled back onto Lip’s radar. He found you hunched over outside a convenience store, wrapped in layers that barely hid the bruises, the limp in your step.

“Holy shit,” Lip muttered, squatting beside you. “I thought you were dead.”

You looked up, eyes dull but still burning. “Almost was.”

He helped you up without asking questions, just grumbling, “Come on,” like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

At the Gallagher house, Fiona stared when you walked in. "You look like hell," she said, but her voice was gentle. You’d never been inside before, not really. But no one stopped you. Carl came crashing down the stairs, stopped dead in his tracks.

“Yo… no way,” he said, eyes wide. “You're alive?”

You managed a weak smile. “Surprised me too.”

He didn’t hesitate—ran up and hugged you so tight it hurt. “I thought you were gone, man. I—I cried and everything.”

You laughed, but it cracked halfway out. “I missed you, Carl.”

Debbie brought you soup. Ian offered clean clothes. Even Frank gave you a nod like he half-remembered who you were.

That night, you lay on the Gallaghers' ratty couch, the chaos of their world swirling around you. But for the first time in forever, you felt something close to safe. Bruised, broken—but breathing. And not alone.